


Big Doors, Little Hinges

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Awkward Romance, Complete, Flirting, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Hogwarts, Squibs, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-09-29 08:22:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20432522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: In a fairly small town, where the rain is abundant and the cows are more sensible creatures than the locals, Scorpius meets a disgruntled handyman and doesn’t quite know what to make of him.Between jars of jam, offerings of eggs, and collective stupidity, they make a mess of things.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you like Scorpius being a ridiculous nerd and Albus being incredibly socially awkward, and handyman shenanigans, then you’ll probably enjoy this! 
> 
> Thanks for setting up the fest, lovely mods!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scorpius aimed a mournful look down at his respectable pyjamas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings! <3

Scorpius answered the door in his pyjamas. They were respectable enough, with tight cuffs and an embroidered pocket, but it was still something his grandmother would have tutted at. But Mitsy was busy making scones for the neighbours, and she was the only House Elf in the Malfoy employ, which left Scorpius to sprint the length of the Wistmans Manor in his thick socks and slide to a stop as the bell rung for a sixth time. 

“Morning,” said a man on his porch. “These are for you.”

He didn't look like much out of the ordinary, standing there in a frumpy jumper and a pair of ragged jeans, holding out a carton of eggs. His voice had the same funny soft lilt that most folk did around these parts. Scorpius didn't know him, although there was something vaguely familiar about his face, and his soft black hair.

“Did I order…?” Scorpius reached out and took the eggs, frowning. 

“Not that I know of.” The man shrugged. “Right, well. See ya later then.”

Scorpius stared. The man put his hands in his pockets and shuffled off down the overgrown path, dodging unfriendly weeds. There was a nettle caught in the thick, navy blue fibres of his jumper, but he didn't seem to notice. Scorpius waited until he’d strolled out of sight before peering inside the carton. Six pale, spotted eggs greeted him, all in various sizes. 

Scorpius shrugged and decided not to question it. “Omelette for breakfast then.”

* * *

Wistmans Wood was a short walk from the Wistman Manor, which made sense really. Deep in the Dart River valley was a conglomeration of houses, shops, manors and sprawling grasslands invisible to the naked eye. Invisible, in fact, to every Muggle under the sun.

Luckily, Scorpius wasn’t a Muggle, or that would have made getting into his new house very difficult. 

Although getting into his new house was already very difficult. Scorpius scowled as he levitated himself gently over a thick moss-covered root, clipboard in hand. The house was only new to him; it had been in the Malfoy family for years, although Malfoys weren’t known for frequenting farmlands or the open countryside, so it was empty most of the time. Scorpius had moved in only a few weeks ago, sent to Dartmoor on assignment, and he was already beginning to regret it. 

Several roof tiles had slid down this morning. It was very much not a _new_ house. 

“You’re not supposed to be out here.”

Scorpius jerked away from his perusal of the tree root. He was still floating in the air, so all the sudden movement did was propel him backwards a few inches, arms pin-wheeling wildly. It was still a blow to the ego, even if he miraculously didn’t land flat on his arse. He looked up to find the man with the frumpy jumper staring at him from near a tree. He was carrying a basket over his arm. 

“More eggs?” Scorpius couldn’t help but ask. 

The man glanced down at his basket. “No. Jam.”

This made absolutely no sense. This time, Scorpius decided to question it. 

“What do you _do_ for a living?”

The man looked bemused. He had a sort of carefree smile that didn't look true, and he aimed it at Scorpius. “I do odd jobs. Fixing things, keeping bees, shooing ducks off lawns, y’know?”

Scorpius did not know. “Shooing ducks?”

“They wander.” The man shrugged. “You’re really not supposed to be out here though. Muggles come out here in the day to visit, since this is a national nature reserve and all that.”

“I do have a permit,” Scorpius said, plucking it out from the metal bar on his clipboard. “And I promise I won’t land on any of the lichen. They’re actually what I’m here to study!”

He floated pointedly over to the man, who stiffened at his approach. 

“I wasn’t telling you because I’m in charge, it’s just that the first walking party arrives soon. I don't care what you do. Get caught, see if I care.”

Scorpius dropped to the floor with a soft thump, blinking in surprise. There was no lichen beneath his boots, thank Merlin, but the ground was crisp enough to crunch under his sudden weight. 

“Did I say something wrong?” Scorpius asked, gripping his clipboard tightly. 

The man shook his head, scowling. “No. Just mind how you go.”

With that, he stalked off. But he didn't get very far before he groaned and whirled around again, face set in determination. Scorpius knew he was very wide-eyed as the man stalked closer, and he squeaked when their elbows brushed. 

They were about the same size, but Scorpius had a feeling he’d still lose a physical fight. That was, if a physical fight was on the table. Up close, the scowl was softening. The man had very green eyes. 

“I’m Albus,” said the man begrudgingly. “Or Al, if you want. Here.”

He thrust a jar of jam into Scorpius’s hand. Then he was gone, high-tailing it out of Wistman’s Wood like there were bees nipping at his heels. Scorpius shouted his own name after him, and thought he caught a hand waved in acknowledgement. When the Woods were empty again, Scorpius leaned heavily against a tree trunk and clutched his clipboard. 

“Oh, who knew that socialising was this exhausting,” Scorpius said weakly. He glanced down at the jam he’d acquired and perked up considerably. “Oh, blackberry!”

Confusing, exhausting interactions had its pay-offs.

* * *

Scorpius barrelled straight into Albus in the post office, which was a funny little building attached to a corner shop. He’d been caught in a minor rainstorm that was quickly turning into a major rainstorm, so his soaked coat left patchy marks on Albus’s jumper when he collided with him, squeaking.

“You squeal a lot,” Albus said, crinkling his nose. He held Scorpius by the forearms and helped him get his feet back under him. “Where’s the fire?”

“The rain’s put it out, if there ever was one.”

It was a bad joke, but Albus snorted with laughter. It was quite a nice sound. 

“Get used to it, if you plan on sticking around,” Albus suggested. “You know the post office doesn’t shut for two hours, right?”

Scorpius blew at his fringe until it floated out of his eyes. “I know but I needed to post this, but I couldn’t find the right road—all the country lanes look the same and I stepped in a cowpat, which is depressingly typical—not to mention my front door fell off, and I didn't know which owl—”

“Hold on,” Albus said abruptly. He yanked Scorpius out of the doorway for a disgruntled old man to hobble by, and when they were tucked in near a donation box for owl treats, Albus fixed him with an incredulous look. “Your front door did what now?”

Scorpius wiped the rain out of his eyes. Somehow he was still dripping. “Oh, it fell off. I managed to get it back in place but I can’t imagine it’s going to stay there.”

“Because…?”

“Because the Manor hates me,” Scorpius said, with a somewhat petulant frown. He ducked around Albus, aware that he had a tag-along now, and presented a brown paper parcel to a Snowy Owl standing on a perch. 

“The Wizarding World is full of weird shit, but I don't think a house can hate you. You’ve only been in there for a few weeks.”

Pausing in his search for Knuts, Scorpius peered over his shoulder curiously. Albus flushed, that ever-present scowl returning with full force. 

“I live down the lane from you,” Albus muttered. “It’s not a big deal, I just saw you arriving from the field.” With some viciousness, he added, “You tripped up the garden path and dropped a box on the front steps.”

“Yes, thank you,” Scorpius said testily. “And thank you for helping me pick it all up when I dropped it, that was so kind of you.”

Albus shrugged, like he couldn’t care less. But there was a hint of pink to his ears, and he produced a Knut while Scorpius tied his parcel to the owl’s leg. It was just a birthday present for his Grandma—a book he’d found in a charity shop on the wonders of Victorian Architecture, which she’d enjoy even if she likely wrote to complain about the second-hand smell. 

The owl hooted softly. Scorpius watched it fly off through a hatch in the ceiling. 

They didn't speak until they made it to the waterlogged planters outside the post office. Roses were sagging under the weight of a troubled sky. Scorpius zipped up his coat a little more firmly and shot a side-long look at Albus, who was sticking close but seemed to be having trouble finding anything to say. 

“You mentioned you fix things, the other day in the woods,” Scorpius said. There were very few people he was comfortable being silent with, and the words bubbled up the longer the quiet went on. “Are you any good? Only I happen to have a really angry front door and a house that hates me, even if you don't believe it. It’s not like I couldn’t fix it if I really wanted to, but I—“

“I’ll help,” Albus said. “When do you want me to start?”

“Really?” 

“It’s my job, after all.”

Scorpius narrowly avoided a large puddle as he wriggled in excitement. “Right, of course it is! I’m better with nature spells than household spells, or I wouldn’t bother you about it, but—”

“I don't mind,” Albus insisted. His eyes looked strangely soft through the haze of rain. “You’re not a bother.”

Scorpius might not have been one for silence, but he found himself oddly speechless as they climbed the lane that led to the Manor. At the top of the hill, Albus turned to walk down a path lined with thick trees on one side, and cow-filled fields on the other. His jumper was thicker than usual, the fibres swollen with rain. He promised to send an owl, to iron out the details, and Scorpius lifted his hand in a foolish wave. He waited by the gate until Albus was a thin speck on the path. Then he turned, grinning, and pushed open the gate. 

It creaked once, trembled like a violin string, and then fell in the mud. Mud splattered up Scorpius’s trousers. He sighed heavily through his nose, rain running down his face, but his mood couldn’t be dampened, not all the way through. 

Albus’s owl couldn’t come soon enough.

* * *

Scorpius rushed to the door in his pyjamas again, barely awake. Mitsy was in the kitchen, her preferred spot, and he’d heard banging and crashing earlier from the sink and the stove. It was mildly concerning. But he knew better than to investigate her while she was working.

He flung the door open, and all thoughts of House Elves flew from his mind. 

Albus stood in a bright spot of sunlight. The path behind him was still wet from the morning burst of rain, but he was a vision of all things gold and lovely. 

“Morning,” Albus said, as if that was a normal thing to say to someone who was having a crisis. “Where d’you want me?”

“In my bed,” murmured Scorpius, in the garbled half-language favoured by the sleep-deprived. When Albus arched an eyebrow, bemused, Scorpius shook himself frantically and gestured him inside. “Um, no, sorry. The kitchen might be the best place to start. And hello, good morning, come in.”

“Morning,” Albus said again, with a slow smile. “If you need a minute to wake up, I don't mind waiting around. Your porch looks more expensive than my whole house.”

“Mmm,” Scorpius hummed, not really paying attention. It was hard to focus on Albus’s words when he was standing there looking like _that._ The black t-shirt fit him perfectly, emphasising every curve, and he wore loose, light work-trousers. The only thing holding them up was a toolbelt that wrapped tightly around Albus’s waist. 

Albus chuckled. 

Scorpius jerked his head upright to find Albus still staring at him, waiting for something. It dawned on him, then, that they were standing in the entryway with the door still wide open, and Scorpius was wearing his pyjamas. Suddenly it didn't seem to matter that they were his most respectable pyjamas. 

“Kitchen,” Scorpius blurted. “Right, yes. This way!”

He babbled all the way down the hallway, wishing he’d brought slippers with him at least. His socks were odd, with one plain and the other one boasting a pattern of dancing radishes. But Albus hadn’t noticed, not yet. He trailed behind Scorpius, nodding and making polite listening sounds as he took in the tapestries and portraits on the walls. 

“I don't know why I pictured something less fancy, considering what you usually wear,” Albus asked, turning on his heel to admire a suit of armour as they strolled past. It rose one metal arm with a clunking sound and flipped them both off. Albus laughed. “Wow. Maybe not as fancy as I thought.”

“That’s just Edgar.” Scorpius winced. “Ghosts come with the house, apparently. He was some kind of prince that died in the Goblin war, and now he lives in the suit of armour. Says it reminds him of someone.”

“Maybe a lover,” Albus suggested, with a hint of something in his voice. The way he said _lover_ bordered on the obscene. Pretty much all of him bordered on obscene, and that was extraordinarily unfair—Scorpius couldn’t help but feel tricked. What happened to the frumpy jumpers? The thick cardigans and plain jeans? It was nothing but trickery. 

The smell of hot cross buns saved Scorpius’s scattered brain from coming up with a response.

“We’re here,” Scorpius said desperately, surging through the kitchen door. 

Stone steps lead down into the kitchen, which was technically built underground. It was colder there, which was the rule of thumb for most wizarding kitchens; _if you want to help your food stay cool, then put your pantry underground, you fool!_ Scorpius had charmed several fake windows to show pictures of the cows several fields over, just to push back the gloomy-dungeon feeling. 

Mitsy was clattering about near the counter. Pots and pans were causing a ruckus up on one of the top shelves, and every time she snapped her fingers, the riots increased. Smoke poured out of the stove, filling the room with a charcoal cloud. 

“I can see why you need help,” Albus muttered. 

“Mitsy,” Scorpius said, pinching his nose as he waded through the smoke towards her. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“Oh, the magic, Master Scorpius, the magic!” Mitsy wailed, snapping her fingers again and again. “First the stove is breaking and burning the buns, and next the kitchen is having a tantrum!”

Scorpius knelt down and patted her gently on the shoulder. A wave of his wand cleared the smoke, but more was still tumbling out of the open stove door. 

“Mitsy cannot get them to stop misbehaving!” Mitsy said, stamping one of her feet. The satin slippers she wore rather dulled the effect. 

“Here,” Albus said, crossing the kitchen to stand beneath the rattling pans. “Let’s try this.”

Albus grabbed something from the nearby sink and held it up, waving it warningly at the pans. It was, when Scorpius peered closer, a scourer. The bristles were shiny and sharp, and there were still bits of old beef in it. He wrinkled his nose, and Mitsy squeaked in surprise, but Albus didn't seem bothered. 

“Want this all over you?” Albus taunted, edging closer with the scourer. He had to stand on tip-toe, but his bulky boots helped. “I’m not afraid to use it. You’ll be scratched to hell and back.”

One by one, the pots and pans ceased their nonsense. The kitchen fell quiet. Scorpius vanished another plume of smoke while Albus put the scourer down on the side, satisfied and fairly smug. Scorpius bit back a noise. Oh, that was a good look on him. One might even say an unfairly good look that had been specifically crafted to torture Scorpius. 

“Oh Master Scorpius’s friend is being brilliant!” Mitsy squeaked, flapping her tiny hands about. “Wonderful! Wonderful! You can stay for tea.”

Mitsy gave a sharp nod, clapping her hands. The kitchen soared into action around them, sugar lumps performing in the air while Scorpius was ushered off his knees by a teapot with an over-eager spout. 

“I really don't think—” Scorpius began, but Mitsy hushed him. 

“Nonsense!” The House Elf beamed. “Mitsy is taking these buns to the neighbours now. Drink your tea, sirs.”

“Recovered from your hysterics, have you?” Scorpius muttered. 

His chair was pushed in rather jarringly, jamming him against the table. Mitsy shot him a warning look as Albus settled on the other side of the table, clearly amused if the shape of his mouth was anything to go by. 

“Be back soon!” Mitsy said cheerfully. 

A crack echoed through the kitchen, and Mitsy vanished from view. Scorpius floundered for a minute. He wriggled, but there was no give. He was stuck to the table and still wearing his sodding pyjamas. Nothing was going the way he wanted it to. 

Albus grinned at him across the table and picked up the nearest teacup. “Sugar? Or are you sweet enough?”

Well, almost nothing, he amended in his head. 

“That was terrible,” said Scorpius’s mouth, not following the script, as a flush crept over his cheeks. “And you don't have to have tea with me, if you’ve got a lot of jobs to do today. Mitsy can be pushy, but she’s family, so I do what she says. That doesn’t mean you have to.”

Albus shrugged, fiddling with a teaspoon. “I’ve only got this house to take care of, and then dinner with my sister later. Not many people actually need a handyman, you know. Not a lot of wizards, anyway.”

“Normally I’d just magic the problems away,” Scorpius admitted, brow furrowing. “Something else is wrong here though. When we use magic, the house seems to fall apart even more. I tried to Reparo the hinges on the kitchen cupboards and they fell off completely! I know I’m not the best with those spells, but that seemed a bit much. I was up all night researching everything I could find, which is why I’m a bit… scattered.”

Scorpius aimed a mournful look down at his pyjamas. But if Albus minded his attire, he didn't say anything. Instead he got up with a thoughtful frown and went to inspect the kitchen cupboards, poking the places where the hinges used to be. All of his canned peaches were on display, but the jam jar was more worrying. It was the one Albus had given him, and it was sitting front and centre in the closest cupboard. 

“I put the doors over there, in the corner,” said Scorpius hurriedly. 

Albus didn’t say anything about the jam, though his lip twitched. He followed Scorpius’s finger and crossed the room. When his chair refused to budge no matter how hard he pulled, Scorpius sighed and poured himself some tea, resigned to his fate. Mitsy’s magic was strong, and her disappointed face was stronger. It was best to just enjoy his breakfast.

Albus muttered. He pulled things from his toolbelt. He laid out nails and screws on the counter, and brought each door back to its matching cupboard. Scorpius propped his chin up on his hand and watched, unable to tear his eyes away. It was trickery, sure, but that didn't mean he couldn’t appreciate the view. 

“This is an old house, right?” Albus said, choosing a screwdriver carefully. Scorpius only knew it was a screwdriver because he’d seen pictures in a book once, but he didn't have the slightest clue how it worked. He hummed, nodding.

“It dates back several centuries ago.”

“Mmm. Lots of magic in the foundations?”

Scorpius paused, vanishing another burst of smoke from the stove. “Yes, I’d say so. Wards and blood magic, at the very least.”

“Old houses tend to be more worn, porous.” Albus made a satisfied sound, lifting one cupboard door and twisting the screwdriver nonsensically. “They soak in all the magic, suck it up. So this one probably has a lot of magic from years ago in the foundations, and then you moved in and started casting different spells. Your daily magic gets thrown around and soaked up too, not to mention House Elf magic, which is stronger and less rule-abiding than most magic.”

“You’re saying the amount of magic is… overloading the house?” Scorpius frowned down at his tea. He’d come up with something similar last night, but he’d also dismissed it as foolish. There was no real evidence; magic was pretty sturdy stuff, and it tended to follow patterns. 

“Magic is weird and doesn’t always make sense,” Albus said, stepping back from the cupboard. “Sure, there’s what Muggles call genetics to explain why it stays in certain bloodlines, and you could probably take a scientific approach and work out all the details, and prove that it works for a reason or whatever. But sometimes it just doesn’t make sense.”

Scorpius gaped at him. “That’s just—that’s ridiculous! You don't even have anything to back your statement up, and it’s a ridiculous statement anyway. Of course magic makes sense, even if we don't know why in the beginning. Anyway, what does it have to do with my house?”

Albus cocked his hip, leaning against the counter with a challenging glint in his eye. “Magic is _weird,_ and it’s overloading your house, so your house is misbehaving. It’s falling apart even though technically magic should be keeping it all together, right, so now when you use a Reparo, things break anyway. They break more than they were breaking in the first place.” Albus shrugged dramatically, his expression bordering on mocking. “You’ve made a big magical mess, basically.”

The smoke from the stove dwindled to a mere curl, possibly intimidated by the weighty silence in the kitchen. 

“Is that your official diagnosis, Mr Potter?” Scorpius said haughtily, drawing himself up as much as he could when he was trapped in what amounted to a high-chair. The smaller, much more sensible part of Scorpius that wasn’t easily provoked began to screech. He hated his haughty voice. But he _loved_ magic. 

“Afraid so.”

“Well I can’t tell where you pulled that explanation from, but it wasn’t your toolbelt,” Scorpius snapped. “Who made you the expert on magic?”

For the first time since he’d stepped through the door that morning, Albus scowled. It wasn’t a particularly menacing expression, but it still sent a jolt through Scorpius. He hadn’t realised how much Albus had been smiling that morning. Albus pushed off from the counter with his hip, and patted Scorpius’s shoulder as he stormed past. 

“The first cupboard’s on me. Let me know if you still want my help.”

Scorpius sputtered, struggling in his chair. “That’s not—”

“Nice socks, by the way.” 

Scorpius gave up trying to escape swiftly when he heard the kitchen door slam shut upstairs, and grimaced as he sunk low in his chair. One cupboard door swung perfectly in place, hiding the jam from view. He had an irritated inkling that the hinges were going to be as sturdy as anything. And as far as he was aware, Albus hadn’t used a single spell. 

There was a crack, and Mitsy appeared in the kitchen. Her happy little smile fell away quickly at the sight of Scorpius’s expression, and she put her hands on her pointy hips. 

“Master Scorpius better be explaining what is going on.”

Yes, Scorpius thought with a wince, as her expression darkened. He really better had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta! <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, you just gave me jam and eggs and fixed my cupboard.” Scorpius shrugged. “Very inconsiderate of you.” 
> 
> Albus smiled reluctantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh it took me a little longer to edit this last chapter, sorry!

Scorpius was stubborn for precisely three days before giving in. It was the Greengrass in him, see, to let things stew instead of rushing right into an apology. To stick to his wands. Kind-hearted and steady and friendly he might have been, but easily swayed? Not by a long spell. 

He spent most of those three days in his library, which doubled as a study, with his nose buried in books and old newspapers. It was the only room that hadn’t yet betrayed him by crumbling at the seams, but his life recently, as previously mentioned, was typically depressing. He figured it was only a matter of time before he was found buried under an avalanche of vengeful bookshelves.

Mitsy brought him juice and curry, and Scorpius ate it by himself, halfheartedly poking at work and devouring headlines when she left. She glared whenever he went near the kitchen. It was safe to say that she wasn’t best pleased with him, not since he’d explained himself and she’d let slip Albus’s last name. 

Potter. That was why he’d looked so familiar. And there was a nagging feeling that Scorpius was missing something, which was why he was knee-deep in old papers. 

One particular headline had him pausing. Scorpius emerged from the newspapers red-faced and ashamed, and all the more determined to fix things. He put on his coat early on the fourth morning and zipped it up. The sky was a gloomy grey, so he added his best walking boots to the ensemble, ignored his flyaway hair, and locked the door behind him.

There was a gangly calf in the field opposite Wistman Manor. Scorpius waved as he passed, taking the path through the trees to where Albus supposedly lived, and then glanced furtively around in case anyone happened to see him waving at farmyard animals. People in the Dart Valley were generally nosy and close-mouthed people, judging over the top of their shopping rather than straight to your face. Albus was the only one who would have told Scorpius flat-out that he looked like an idiot. 

Of course, there was still _plenty_ of time for Albus to call Scorpius an idiot. He just had to answer the door first. 

Scorpius dithered on the doorstep. Albus’s house was smaller than his, but prettier; traits that it shared with its owner. There were no holes in the roof. Each pale grey brick looked steady as a rock. The garden was a gentle mass of quivering flutterby bushes and gossiping birds. 

“Good morning,” Scorpius muttered lowly, to the closed door, when a third knock went ignored. “Good morning, Albus. Or good day? No, that’s way too Sherlockian. Good morning. I hope you’re well? I hope _you’re_ well… feeling well. Bugger. I came to apologise!”

“Did you?”

Scorpius wheezed. The gate at the side of the house swung open to reveal Albus, standing with a bucket sat on his hip, eyebrow cocked. He wore thick dragon-skin gloves and boots that looked like they’d been fashioned from jelly. The frumpy jumper was back—which was good, because Scorpius really needed to concentrate. 

Although now that he was looking, it made absolutely no bloody difference. Jumper or not, Albus was very easy on the eyes, and it wasn’t good for Scorpius’s general health. He could have been wearing anything and he probably still would have lost all control of his speech. 

“Hello,” Scorpius settled on, improvising with a small wave. 

Albus let the gate swing shut and stomped up the front steps. He brushed past Scorpius on the way and fiddled about in his pockets for keys, unlocking the door without another word. Scorpius watched him disappear inside, mouth open but words firmly trapped in his throat. Disappointment welled up inside him. He hadn’t said a word. 

In the stillness of the garden, Scorpius stood and clenched his fists. 

Albus poked his head back outside, an irritable frown drawing his eyebrows together. “You can try shouting the rest of your speech from there, but I don't think I’ll hear you from the living room.”

“Well you didn't _say_ I could come inside!” Scorpius protested, scurrying up the last of the steps. 

It was warm inside Albus’s house. He got distracted hanging up his coat, arguing with one of the pegs when it seized his left ear instead. By the time he got free, Albus has disappeared, and the side of his head was tender. Rubbing his ear, Scorpius followed a trail of discarded boots and gloves through a comfortable hallway, into a living room that looked like three distinct interior styles had battled to the death, only for their innards to be splattered all over the walls. One lamp had a skull printed on it, and the wooden floorboards were blanketed in faint blue shag rugs. Albus was bent over a cauldron in the corner, carefully depositing shiny leaves inside it. The bucket sat patiently at his feet. 

“You have a nice home,” Scorpius said, ignoring his throbbing ear. He put his hands in his pockets and strolled around, peering at knick-knacks and bookshelves. Albus didn’t tell him to stop, so he kept poking around. 

“Thanks. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—I’ll only be a sec. Shit, wait. What was I on?”

“Fifteen,” Scorpius offered. 

Albus flashed him a grateful smile, much to his relief. Scorpius still felt as though the carpet was made of a particular eggshell material, but Albus didn't seem angry. He didn't seem like he was going to kick Scorpius out or start yelling, or give him the cold shoulder. 

“Ninteen,” Albus said finally, taking the last leaf out of the bucket and adding it to the cauldron. There was a soft pop, like a cork leaping from a bottle, and a shower of yellow sparks flew into the air before the cauldron settled. 

“Oh,” Scorpius said, shifting closer with wide-eyed fascination. “You’re making a potion? Really?”

If he’d been paying attention, he would have noticed the way Albus’s shoulders tightened and his expression flattened out. As it was, he was too busy inspecting the potion simmering gently in the cauldron. It was yellow, but it put Scorpius in mind of daisies, and he couldn’t figure out why.

“Yeah, it’s a miracle, I know,” Albus said flatly. 

Scorpius paused. He repeated his questions in his head. And then he cursed and stepped, not-so-lightly, on his own foot. 

“I didn't mean to sound surprised, I promise. I just didn't—”

“Didn't realise that Squibs could make potions,” Albus finished for him. 

Scorpius considered denying it, but it was true. He hadn’t realised that Squibs could make potions. And he still didn't know if that was a sore subject or not—of course it was, what was he thinking? Nobody liked to be made to feel like they couldn’t do something, like the idea of it was simply baffling. 

Scorpius swallowed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He didn't want to get this wrong, or tread on any toes. There were no lessons in school or conversations at home to prepare him for this. The closest he’d ever been to a Squib before was when he barrelled straight into Filch in his third year, trying to escape Peeves and his stink pellets. That wasn’t really a night full of deep, heartfelt, scintillating conversation. 

“It’s okay,” Albus said suddenly, turning to pick up a ladle with hunched shoulders. “I didn’t mean to snap. It’s not your fault that you don't know something. Nobody really talks about Squibs, do they? So it’s not like you’d know. It’s like a dirty subject or something.”

Softly, Scorpius said, “It shouldn’t be.”

The ladle banged against the side of the cauldron in agreement. They stood quietly together until Albus sighed and nudged him, almost pointedly. _Make conversation,_ the nudge seemed to say. It was fascinating, the language of elbows. 

“What is it?” Scorpius asked. “The potion, I mean. I don’t recognise it.” 

“It’s a fertiliser for the garden,” Albus explained. “You do need a wand for most potions, but potions that benefit basic Herbology can be made by pretty much anyone. A muggle could make this, if they felt like having massive flutterby bushes.”

Something about the wording had Scorpius pushing back a bout of nervous giggles. Albus threw him a knowing look, still stirring. There was the plush aroma of fresh flowers in the air. He cleared his throat and tugged on the hem of his shirt, meeting Albus’s curious gaze. 

“I wanted to come here and apologise,” Scorpius said. 

“You did mention something about a speech,” Albus said. 

Scorpius scowled. “You mentioned a speech, not me!” He paused, shrugging. “But I have been writing one.” 

Albus’s mouth curved slightly as he lead Scorpius away from the cauldron, sprawling on the sofa. He wasn’t elegant, he didn’t take up much room, and there was nothing particular extraordinary about his manner, but he drew the eye all the same. Scorpius found him captivating. He sat beside Albus, careful not to let their thighs touch even though he dearly wanted to. 

“It’s not a very good speech, I’m afraid. Mitsy made me too nervous to practice out loud.”

“I’m willing to hear it,” Albus offered, and his smile was enough to make him sit up straighter, suddenly emboldened. He took a deep breath and dived right in. 

“I didn't know you were a Squib,” Scorpius said. “If I had, I wouldn’t have been—well, I would have acted better, that’s all. But that’s not an excuse. When you left, and I realised who you were, I realised that I’d almost been rubbing my magic in your face, and I never would have done that if I’d known!” He took a minute to breathe deeply, wincing. “It’s still not an excuse, of course, but I’m sorry, Albus. Really, I am.”

Albus appeared to be thinking about it. Then he said, “It took you three days to write that speech?”

Scorpius grimaced, flushing. “It took me three days before I realised _why_ I needed that speech and that was _far_ too long, I’m really sorry, Albus.”

Albus reached up and slapped a palm over Scorpius’s mouth, startling him silent. His eyebrows shot up, and he stayed silent, inhaling the scent of earth before Albus sheepishly withdrew his hand. 

“Sorry, but I could tell you were going to keep apologising, and I was only joking.” Albus smiled a little crookedly. “It was a good speech. I probably should have made that clearer. How _didn't_ you know I was a Squib though? It was the talk of the whole Wizarding World for months, and I’m not even part of the bloody Wizarding World.”

“Don't say that!” Scorpius squawked. 

Albus put his hand back, covering his mouth more firmly, and this time Scorpius flailed and shoved him. There was a brief scuffle in which the intricate and subtle language of elbows devolved into vulgar swears and vicious prodding, and then Scorpius found he was giggling. Mostly because Albus was laughing, and still hadn’t moved his hand. 

“I’m not part of the Wizarding World the way I wanted to be, and that’s fine now,” Albus said, still grinning and slightly out of breath.

Scorpius hummed, disagreeing. But he didn’t say anything. He manoeuvred himself backwards so that he wasn’t looming over Albus, and fixed him with a stern stare. Albus arched an eyebrow, waiting.

“Fine,” Scorpius said pleasantly. “I’ll argue with you about it later. And to answer your question, I didn’t know who you were because you don’t look like a seven-year-old, which was the last time I saw a picture of you. In the paper. Also, you never told me your last name. You’re not very good with manners, you know.” 

“That’s rich!” Albus snorted, but he seemed happy enough to start arguing. “Any other complaints?”

Scorpius smiled sweetly. “Your coat pegs need disciplining. They’re awful, and I can only guess they got it from you.” 

Albus put one hand on a decorative cushion, a clear threat. 

Scorpius laughed, holding his hands up in a show of surrender. 

When they had calmed and two butterbeers had been gathered, Scorpius nudged Albus. “I’m glad I know now. I won’t be such a knob about it now.” 

“I said it was fine. To be fair, I could have told you I was a Squib, and I’m supposed to be less sensitive about this shit.” 

Scorpius didn’t agree with that either. 

“Communication and all that,” Albus continued, sipping his frothy drink. “You didn’t know, but I didn’t say anything either.” 

“No, you just gave me jam and eggs and fixed my cupboard.” Scorpius shrugged. “Very inconsiderate of you.” 

Albus smiled reluctantly. “Yeah. Well. I’ll tell you stuff from now on, if you still want my help around your house. I’m not very good at this stuff, you know? People say I’m too harsh. But I don't want to be. Not with you, anyway.” He pulled a face. “Does that make sense?”

Scorpius took a very large gulp of his drink, but it didn’t help the sudden lump in his throat. 

“Perfect sense,” Scorpius croaked.

* * *

The next few days were a flurry of research. Scorpius took root in the library and didn't move from his cushion. It developed something of an arse-shaped divot. Papers and studies and reports and clinical trials fanned out across the floor. Endless open books began to pile up, the spines lovingly cracked. He made notes in the margins and dug out his old reading glasses when his eyes began to cross. He drank coffee by the gallon, interspersed with the odd glass of pumpkin juice that Mitsy managed to force down his throat.

“Vitamin C, Master Scorpius!” Mitsy gasped, yanking on his collar as he bent and muttered over a pile of reports. “You is not having enough Vitamin C! Oh, Mitsy is going to throttle you, oh yes!” 

At the end of the week, Scorpius would be able to consider himself something of an expert in Squibs from the Founders Era up to thirty years later. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. 

When Mitsy wasn’t busy half-strangling him for the sake of his health, she was showing Albus to the most problematic parts of the house. Albus usually rapped on the library door as he passed, chucked him a lemon muffin or a pumpkin pasty, and then whistled his way down the hall after the chattering Elf. Sometimes Scorpius gave in and followed him, but more often than not he stuck himself to the arse-shaped divot until temptation passed. Scorpius almost strained his neck trying to follow Albus down the hall without standing, tracking his arse in those jeans. 

So far, Albus had fixed the garden gate, which was prone to crumbling at any touch, and unclogged the chimney with a big broom that didn't look structurally sensible at all. 

“They used to shove children up chimneys years ago,” Albus said, voice echoing like a kicked pebble in a cave, sharp and to the point. Only his legs were visible; the rest of him was obscured by the old stone wall and a cloud of soot. “It was genuinely a job. Loads of them died.”

Scorpius didn’t see how he’d fit up there with a brush that size, but he didn’t question Albus’s expertise anymore. Not unless it came to decor and colour-matching. 

“You’re a fountain of disturbing knowledge,” Scorpius said, shifting antsily on the large sheet laid on the ground. “You can drink potions, can’t you? No negative effects?”

There was now a rule which stated that Scorpius could ask any Squib-related question so long as it wasn’t purposefully ignorant, or mean—which was easy enough for someone without a mean bone in his body, Albus had said, rather meanly making Scorpius blush—and Albus would do his best to answer. But that didn't mean Scorpius didn't feel anxious asking, listening to the eggshells crinkle under his feet. And the brief silence from inside the chimney only fueled the anxiety. 

“I can take potions,” Albus said. “Spells and potions are fine, I just can’t use them. I mean. Obviously I can’t use them. Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Albus’s legs disappeared from view. There was a scuffle and several mumbled curses that echoed. Scorpius hid a smile, even though there was nobody properly in the room to see it. A flustered Albus was a nice change of pace. 

“Shut up. I can feel you grinning,” snapped the chimney. Scorpius busied himself with summoning several lung-related potions from the bathroom cabinet just to keep the laughter in. 

The bathroom cabinet took the opportunity to snap straight off the wall. Scorpius found it later that night, smashed to pieces on the floor, and sighed. But it wasn’t a particularly unhappy sigh, since it was a good excuse for Albus to visit sooner rather than later.

* * *

“How the hell do you keep finding me?” Albus said, from the top of a wobbling ladder. It was one of the spare bedrooms, where the plaster kept peeling off the walls. The whole second floor stank of paint, and the carpet was littered with rollers and plastic trays.

“I followed the smell and the terrible whistling,” Scorpius said, hovering near the bottom of the ladder and rolling up his sleeves. “Should you be up there without someone holding this?” 

Albus hummed, teaching blindly for a scraper that Scorpius passed him. “If you’re bored, you’re welcome to stand there and hold it, but I think I know how to stand on a ladder without keeling over.” 

Scorpius thought this over for a moment, morning the gruff tone and the blank expression. “Is this another case of you doing the thing where you pretend not to care whether I stay, and then you get extraordinarily grumpy if I leave? Or do you genuinely not care?” 

Beet-red, Albus muttered, “The first one.” 

Scorpius grinned at him, reaching for his own paint-scraper. He was getting much better at this.

* * *

Eventually, Scorpius exhausted his not-inconsiderable stock of resources, and it ended with him sitting in front of the freshly-cleaned fireplace, legs crossed, while the flames turned green.

“Scorpius,” Dad said, appearing in the fire. “Are you well?”

Scorpius frowned. “Hi, Dad. I’m okay. What’s—?”

“You’re not injured?”

Scorpius felt his eyebrows pull down, bewildered. “No?”

Dad hummed, his eyes narrowed in a searching sort of stare. “No damage I should know about? No scandals or kidnappings or crisis? No bodily suffering?”

_Bodily suffering,_ Scorpius mouthed. He shook himself and said, “I don't know what that means, but I’m fine. Great, even! Really great. You’ll never guess—”

“Excellent,” Dad interrupted pleasantly, and it was only when his expression flattened into something terrifying and red and filled with very Malfoy-like nuances that Scorpius felt the trapdoor fall out from under his feet. “Then would you mind explaining why the _bloody hell_ I haven’t been able to contact you? Years, I put up with you nagging me _endlessly_ about having your own Floo connection! Years! And yet the minute you get your own house and your own fireplace, and your own bloody Floo connection, suddenly it’s like you’ve never even seen so much as a bloody lit match!”

Scorpius gabbled uselessly, but he gave up trying to explain himself when Dad started rambling about search parties and him being dead in the gutter. Stubborn he might be, but in the face of Draco Malfoy’s paternal instincts, nothing but swift resignation to one’s fate would do. 

“—Not to mention you had your mother worried sick, and I called St Mungo’s fifteen times but of _course_ they didn't want anything to do with me, never mind the fact that you could have been lying in a hospital bed—Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, are you _reading a book right now?”_

Panicking, Scorpius snatched his hand away from an open volume of Gadding with Ghouls. It was vastly considered a fairly useless load of codswallop, and so it was one of Scorpius’s favourite stories, but he probably should have picked up a book on defensive magic instead, judging by the incandescent plumes of rage pouring out of his fireplace. Being full-named was never a good sign. 

“I wasn’t reading,” Scorpius said quickly. “And I wasn’t dead in a gutter! The chimney was out of order for a while because it was being cleaned.”

Dad stared at him. “Cleaned.”

“Yes, cleaned.” Scorpius couldn’t help but add, “It’s this thing that involves dirty things not being dirty anymore.”

Dad’s head rolled about in the fire, following the gravitational pull of his eyeballs, which seemed determined to escape his head. “I know what cleaning is, Scorpius, and I know that your old room is going to be sparkling by tonight, because I’m going to _clean_ it out and bloody well turn it into an old broom cupboard. I know how much you love Quidditch.”

“Dad.”

“Tell me, would the Quaffles look best on display where your books used to be, or where your bed used to be?”

“Dad!”

“I was worried, Scorpius!” Dad snapped. He sniffed and drew himself up as much as possible when one’s visible physical form consisted of a head in a fire. 

Scorpius made a small apologetic sound. He softened, leaning forward to sprawl on the floor in an ungainly manner, chin propped up on his hand. It brought him closer to his Dad, who had always had an unhealthy amount of fear regarding Scorpius’s safety, though not for no reason. Dad pulled a face at his beseeching eyes, but reluctantly stopped muttering about disloyal children. 

“Sorry for worrying you,” Scorpius said quietly. “You do know I’m twenty-four though, don't you? I’m not going to get into trouble. I live a very boring life. I study _lichen_ for a living—although actually, it’s fascinating to me, but I haven’t found anyone else who agrees just yet, so the point still stands.”

“Scorpius,” Dad said weakly, shaking his head and sending ash skittering onto the rug. “I’ll still worry when you’re nine hundred and four.”

Scorpius grinned. He heard a faint mutter from the other side of the fire, and Dad rolled his eyes. 

“Your mother wants to talk to you.” He turned his head briefly and said, muffled, “Apparently he was getting it cleaned. I went grey for nothing. No, it was _not_ grey already, Astoria, and don't try that—”

“Scorpius, darling,” Mum said, popping into the fire. It was far too cramped for both of them, but Scorpius smiled happily all the same. Dad wedged himself against one half of the fire while Mum took up the rest of the flames, her long hair trailing in the coals, unhurt. Dad softened the longer he looked at her, as always. 

“Mum! I miss you.”

“Me too, darling.” Mum smiled, all teeth and sparkling wit. “We were worried about you. Your father almost threw a priceless vase at Blaise at dinner, so I’ve been entertained, but it’s nothing compared to your company.”

“He had it coming,” Dad muttered darkly. 

“Yes, yes, dear.” Mum kissed him fondly on the cheek and smiled when he settled, begrudgingly mollified. She turned her attention to Scorpius. “Tell me everything.”

Scorpius didn't quite tell her everything. He trusted his parents more than anyone else in the world, and they’d always been close, but this wasn’t something he wanted to discuss yet. The Albus Conundrum, as he’d called it in his head. So he talked about work instead, about the magical readings deep in the lichen of Wistman Woods, and the reports he was mid-way through for Lorcan at the Quibbler. He wasn’t much of a storyteller, but he revelled in facts and history, so Lorcan let him deal with the research expeditions. 

He talked for a while about his other, more Squib-related research, phrasing it as a vague interest, and managed to sneak in a request for more books while fending off questions. He mentioned the creaky, cranky house. He spoke fondly of Mitsy and demanded an update on life at home. 

And then he almost threw himself in the fire when he heard footsteps behind him. The conversation died, and both of his parents’ eyebrows furrowed. 

“Is someone there with you?” Dad demanded, sounding ready to climb through with a barrage of curses at the ready. 

Scorpius scrambled upright, but it was far too late to do anything. 

“Knock-knock,” Albus said, strolling casually into the room. “Want me to make a start in your bedroom?”

He was wearing that shirt and those jeans and the _sodding_ toolbelt. He held up a roll of electrical tape, eyebrow raised, and only faltered when he peered past Scorpius’s whimpering form to find two shocked pairs of eyes fixed firmly on him. 

“Oh, Merlin’s threadbare fucking pocket-square,” Dad spat, horrified. There was a pop and his head vanished, the fire billowing in his absence. 

Mum cleared her throat delicately, her mouth twitching. “Scorpius, I think the doorbell must have rung.”

Scorpius whimpered. “Right. Of course.”

“Mrs Malfoy,” Albus started. Scorpius really wished he would lower the damn electrical tape. “I’ve been—uh, helping out. Around the house. Because it’s not very stable at the minute.”

Dad’s head popped back into the fire, startling them all as he hissed, “Really, Scorpius? _Cleaning?_ That’s why you couldn’t answer the Floo?”

“It was being cleaned!” Scorpius protested, flailing one arm. “I promise!”

Dad looked extremely pained as he said, “I love you, and I support your mistakes. We will talk about this later.”

He cast one more horrified look at Albus, who was equally as horrified, and then disappeared again. Scorpius groaned very deeply and buried his face in his hands, only to shoot upright again when Mum chuckled. 

“The doorbell must have rung again,” she said, with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “You know what your father’s like, always having guests over. You should take a leaf out of his book. Now, it looks like you boys have a very busy day planned, so I’ll leave you to it.”

“Oh, that’s not—” Albus said, but Mum just winked at them both. 

“It was lovely to meet you, Mr Potter. I imagine we’ll see you again soon. Scorpius, answer your Floo next time, will you?”

Mum blew him a kiss, and then she vanished too. 

The fire flickered before turning yellow, and then dying down in the grate. Albus finally stuffed the electrical tape back in his toolbelt, far too late to be helpful. 

“That,” Scorpius said, staring keenly at the glowing embers, “is going to be brought up at every single family function for the rest of my life. Uncle Blaise is going to find out and put it in the Christmas Cards. Not just mine, either.”

Albus was very red in the face. He shuffled closer and joined Scorpius on the rug, leaning his back against the sofa and crossing his legs at the ankles. For a minute, they were silent, stewing in their own mortification. 

“That wasn’t you coming out, was it?” Albus checked. “Because I’m really fucking sorry if it was.” 

Surprised, Scorpius looked up to find worry painted clearly in Albus’s expression. He smiled softly, some of his embarrassment draining away, and shook his head. “No, no, I came out ages ago. There’s a headline about that, if you ever want to read it. They weren’t too surprised.” And then because his brain apparently wasn’t content with just one instance of mortification today, Scorpius added, “I wanted to marry your dad when I was three.”

Albus choked on nothing.

* * *

“Hey,” Albus said, poking his head around the kitchen door. “I let myself in—Christ, you look like shit.”

Scorpius picked his head up off the table and glowered over his shoulder. “Thank you ever so much. You really know how to butter someone up.”

“Are you sick?” 

Scorpius shook his head, stifling a yawn. “No, but I feel like death warmed up anyway. Mitsy took away the coffee and took her holiday at the same time.” 

Footsteps echoed off the stone as Albus came closer. He was wearing another one of those unreasonably tight shirts, which was the only upside to Scorpius being awake and out of bed. 

“Up all night again?” Albus asked. His hands landed tentatively on Scorpius’s shoulders, and he squeezed gently. It turned, with a slow inevitable tumbling, into a quiet massage that dragged a groan from deep in his throat. Albus paused while Scorpius cleared his throat, cheeks tinted pink, and then those skilled, capable hands resumed their kneading. 

“I was doing research. Mum finally sent those books to me—they say hello, by the way, and they want to know if you’re busy for Halloween because there’s a Masked Ball, and by they I mean Mum and Grandma because Dad is still in denial.” 

Albus snorted, digging at a particularly tough knot that had Scorpius almost biting through his tongue. 

“I couldn’t put the books down because I hate being able to function in the morning, apparently,” Scorpius said. 

There was nothing better than Albus laughing, Scorpius decided then and there. With one last squeeze to the back of his neck, Albus withdrew his hands and rounded the table, where he sat and picked up a book before Scorpius could stop him. 

“Squibs: The Hidden Existence Through The Ages,” Albus read aloud, his voice growing slower and more serious as he carried on. “Exploring the origin of non-magical Wizard Folk and the far-reaching effects of the social stigma surrounding their existence. Florence Everfield delves deep into the history of some of Britain's most prolific Pureblood families, and the secrets in their magical ancestry.”

The silence in the kitchen was deafening. Even the pans didn't dare make a sound. 

“You’re researching Squibs,” Albus said carefully, putting the book down like it might bite if he moved too suddenly. “Why?”

Why? Because it wasn’t possible to leave it alone. Because Albus sometimes looked at magic that swirled through the town like it was something he craved and something he hated all at once. Because he sometimes looked like he didn’t care at all, and that made the moments when he did so much worse. 

But really, there was only one answer. Scorpius bit his lip. “Well, for you.”

“For me.” Albus stared at him sharply, looking lost for words. “What does that mean?”

The last time they had a conversation like this in this very kitchen, he ended up stuck to the table for ages with a sick, stony feeling in his chest. Scorpius got up out of his seat and paced, bypassing the stove that still wouldn’t cook anything and searching for words that might explain all the feelings in his chest, the ones he couldn’t tell his parents, or his House-Elf, or himself. 

What the hell was he supposed to say? _I’m researching Squibs for you because that’s what you are and I want to understand you. I want to treat you the only way you should be treated: with respect and love and gentleness._ What was he supposed to say? _I’m doing this because you have eyes like lichen and that drew me in and now I don't know what to do. The other day we sat in the library and I didn't need to talk at all, and I never feel comfortable enough to be quiet around people, but I think I could love silence with you. I didn't think I’d have a place in this world either because magic might be kind but people aren’t, and it doesn’t seem right that you don't get to have a place here when all you are is good and sometimes I still doubt myself._

That was too much. All of that was far too much to throw in the face of someone asking a fair, simple question. 

“I know there’s probably nothing I can do,” Scorpius said slowly, turning reluctantly to face Albus. “People have studied Squibs before and tried to help and nothing’s been thought of. But I want to try anyway. I research lichen and moss because people think it has roots in the very first instances of magic, did you know? But when I say people, I mean Luna Lovegood, and _other_ people don't take her very seriously. They’re not nice about it. I decided to help, to take the research on, and now I agree with her. I think she might be right!”

“Okay,” Albus said, frowning slightly. “So… you’re researching Squibs because… you’re incredibly stubborn and you think you can fix this?”

Scorpius huffed. “Don't be stupid, you don't need fixing. And I’m not stubborn. I just want to help you because you deserve it if that’s what you want, oh my goodness.”

The chair scraped back with a sudden grinding sound. Albus stood up slowly, mouth curving into an equally-slow smile, but he seemed to be understanding something much quicker than Scorpius was. 

“Ah,” Albus said. 

“What?” Scorpius crossed his arms over his chest. “I don't—it’s not like a project or anything. I just don’t want to get this wrong. But if it’s too weird or uncomfortable, all the books and everything, I can shelve it.”

“No, you can’t,” Albus disagreed cheerily, strolling closer. “You’re too stubborn to let research go. That’s why you haven’t slept in ages.”

“That’s not true and it’s besides the point—oh, you’re very close.”

Albus was very close indeed. He was close enough to see that bright green gaze in high definition, and the crooked tilt to his grin, and the way his neck sloped when he cocked his head. “Is that a problem?”

Scorpius arrived at the same conclusion Albus had, just a few seconds late. But it was better late than never. With a growing sense of wonder and excited hope, Scorpius bit his lip. Perhaps all those things he’d thought earlier weren’t too much at all. 

“Your eyes are exactly the same shade of lichen in the woods,” Scorpius blurted out. 

The scourer skirted away from him, sliding along the length of the counter and dropping down the back of the stove, where Scorpius’s terribly awkward statements couldn’t reach it. Scorpius dearly wanted to jump down after it. Albus muffled laughter against his hand. 

“You don't still have that electrical tape, do you?” Scorpius pondered, eyes tipped towards the ceiling. “I need to make sure my mouth stays shut for the rest of time.”

“I won’t be able to kiss you if you tape your mouth shut,” Albus pointed out. 

Scorpius inhaled sharply. He dropped his gaze from the ceiling to Albus’s eyes, and found they were suddenly uncertain. 

“If you want me to, that is,” Albus added awkwardly. “Not sure why you would, but if you do…”

“I do. And I know why. It’s the toolbelt,” Scorpius breathed, chasing the last of his sensible thoughts away as he leaned in. “It’s oddly alluring.”

In the absence of electrical tape, he was very grateful for Albus’s next move, which was to lean the rest of the way in and kiss him. Albus kissed him in the kitchen, next to the broken stove and an empty jar of blackberry jam that was hidden from view. Scorpius almost thought he could taste it, and he shut his eyes and pulled Albus closer by his belt, tucking his fingers under the thick leather. The pans rattled. Albus made a sound and kept kissing him. Scorpius used his magic to clear the counter-top, shoving everything out of the way and hopping up to pull Albus close, settling him in the vee of his legs. 

The cupboard door trembled, at the burst of magic before falling off with a loud clatter and a bang. 

Albus jerked back, surprised, and blinked up at Scorpius as though he hadn’t even noticed the change in position. “Weren’t you tall enough?”

But Scorpius wasn’t paying attention. His hands were still tangled in Albus’s soft hair, and the sodding toolbelt was hanging loosely off Albus’s waist, but surprisingly none of that was what grabbed his gaze. Inside the open cupboard, the jam jar Albus had given him was plainly visible on the first shelf, front and centre. It was completely empty, and washed clean. One of Albus’s paintbrushes was sticking out of it. 

“Oh dear,” Scorpius muttered. 

“Oh,” Albus said. 

Scorpius slid his eyes sideways. Albus looked like he was having several realisations all at once—as though lichen eyes and kissing wasn’t enough of an obvious confession. 

“I don't actually keep chickens,” Albus blurted suddenly. “I bought those eggs, the first day. I just—wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

Scorpius bit his lip. He opened his mouth, and then shut it again, snickering as he slid his hands around to cup Albus’s face. 

“Yeah, alright, laugh it up, mossmouth,” Albus grumbled, eyes fixed pointedly on the jam jar. He opened his mouth, no doubt to bring up something else equally as embarrassing, but Scorpius decided he’d had enough of all that. 

Albus fell quiet under his mouth, kissing him back. It turned out that kissing was just as effective as electrical tape, and was undoubtedly much, much more satisfying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely response, hope you enjoy this last bit! <3

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate the beta, B. Thanks for reading! Feel free to say hello!


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